


Prompts

by getoffmyhead



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:54:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26798419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmyhead/pseuds/getoffmyhead
Summary: A collection of short prompt responses. The majority are Sid/Geno, but there will be some others. Pairings in the chapter titles.
Relationships: Evgeni Malkin/Nikita Kucherov, Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin, Sidney Crosby/Nathan MacKinnon
Comments: 22
Kudos: 47





	1. Thunder (Sid/Geno with past Geno/Kucherov)

It stormed the day they broke up. Zhenya could hear the crashes and claps in the background of the phone line. He didn’t think it was a hurricane—Nikita was on the wrong side of Florida for that—but it sounded bad.

Nikita sounded calm. Faced with the storm and Zhenya’s tears, he remained dispassionate. Businesslike.

“It’s nothing personal, honestly. I’m getting married.”

“To who?” Zhenya cried. They were just together in Sochi, and Nikita had seemed happy with him. He had smiled when Zhenya asked if he wanted to spend a few days in Moscow, recover from the Team Russia loss. Nikita's blue eyes were like a lighthouse on stormy seas, leading Zhenya back from the brink of disappointment when he nodded.

“You don’t know her,” Nikita said matter-of-factly on the phone, and Zhenya wondered if there really was a girl. He had never seen anyone with Nikita. They had spent weeks together at the Olympics and then Moscow—inseparable. Zhenya would have noticed a girl hanging around, if only to be furiously jealous.

Zhenya almost would have preferred if he _did_ see Nikita sneaking around with someone else. He would have taken any warning at all. Up until the phone call, he had no idea that Nikita might harbor doubts about their longevity.

He was more than _harboring_ —he was actively ending things.

But Nikita had seemed so happy in Zhenya’s condo in Moscow. He had bundled up in Zhenya’s sweaters by the fire, the sleeves bunched up at his wrists while his long fingers cradled a glass of red wine. They had laughed together, the night before they had to leave, and made promises about the summer.

No, that wasn’t right. Zhenya couldn’t remember Nikita making any promises at all. He could only remember his own musings, planning for Nikita to join him on an extended vacation in Miami. Humiliation burned at Zhenya's cheeks when he remembered how Nikita had smiled and said nothing.

Another clap of thunder roared through the phone speaker. Zhenya swiped at his eyes and forced himself to breathe slowly.

“Zhenya, honestly. It’s not that big a deal. We had a good time, didn’t we?”

Zhenya could have had a good time with anyone. Nikita made it sound so casual, like hooking up with a friend was normal, easy. Zhenya’s blood ran cold when he thought of the months he had refrained from going out, from sleeping with other people.

“I thought it was more than a good time,” Zhenya said. His voice sounded hollow. “I thought we were real.”

Nikita’s laugh sounded bright and comfortable. “Of course we were real. I have the hickey to prove it, you damn vampire.”

“You never cared about me?”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Nikita replied with impatience starting to creep into his tone. “You’re my friend. I care about you a lot. But we both know—there’s no room for this in hockey. Imagine if somebody found out.”

“We could keep it secret,” Zhenya said, aware that he sounded desperate. But he didn’t spend eight months on people if he didn’t see a future with them.

Nikita brushed his offer away with a scoff. “Please stop making this difficult.”

“ _I’m_ making it difficult?”

“It’s not that big a deal. We’ll still be friends, just without benefits. I’ll invite you to my wedding—”

Thunder rumbled in the background as Zhenya hung up.

***

Nikita’s body crashed into the boards with a thunderclap of noise, crushed off the puck by Sid’s superior strength. It was the third check so far, only halfway through the first period. Sid wasn’t usually so physical, especially not against one player.

Nikita shoved Sid when the whistle blew, snapping something at him. Sid sneered his words back—nothing Zhenya could make out from the bench. Whatever it was made Nikita shove closer, fighting the ref’s arms to get to Sid.

Normally, Sid would skate away. He would come back to the bench with a lame joke or a, “What’s that guy’s problem?” But as Nikita shoved closer, Sid noticeably shook his gloves—an offer. Sid wanted a fight.

Zhenya shot to his feet before he thought about what he was doing. He couldn’t go out onto the ice to intervene—not without incurring a league-mandated suspension. But he had to do something. Sid was out there fighting Zhenya’s battles for him.

Zhenya had told Sid about his relationship after it ended. He’d had little choice, devastated as he was, as poorly as he had been playing. Sid had thought it was about Russia’s loss in Sochi—it wasn’t. It was about Nikita. But that was months ago, and Zhenya was over it.

Apparently, Sid was not.

Nikita kept jawing and pushing at the ref’s hold, but he backed down from the offer of a fair fight. Sid made his way back to the bench, practically steaming, and plopped down moodily next to Zhenya.

“You okay?” Zhenya asked, lowering to sit with Sid.

“That guy pisses me off,” Sid grumbled, reaching for a bottle.

Zhenya’s mind took him back to Sid’s kitchen a month after Sochi. He could feel the beer he rolled between his hands, the cool granite under his thighs where he sat on the counter, the burn of hot tears welling up in his eyes—eyes that refused to come up and meet Sid’s while Zhenya admitted his shame. Sid had let him talk without interruption, exposing his eight-month relationship. Zhenya laid everything out until he got to the abrupt and painful end—the reason for his recent downturn in on-ice performance.

Zhenya wasn’t sure what he had expected Sid to say. Maybe that a relationship with an opposition player would have been doomed no matter what else happened. Zhenya kept his eyes down, locked on his beer bottle until Sid spoke.

“I’m sorry,” Sid said, and Zhenya almost scoffed. Sid was always saying sorry about something. “Being on the ice reminds you of him. I’m sure that’s horrible.”

Zhenya’s eyes floated up, shocked that Sid seemed able to put into words precisely what Zhenya was feeling. Sid normally didn’t intuit so well.

“Just take your time. Your game will come back—it always does.”

“But what if I can’t—” Zhenya started and then stopped. He was too afraid to admit out loud that he feared Nikita had stolen his joy of hockey, that he would never have fun at it again.

Sid’s hand balked just once before it came to rest on Zhenya’s knee. His smile looked so fond. “You will. I believe in you.”

The utter confidence in Sid’s voice had served as a flint, igniting a spark of sorely needed hope in Zhenya. Locking eyes with Sid in his kitchen, the hope wasn’t _only _about hockey.__

Three months later, on the cusp of the playoffs, Sid was fanning the spark he created in Zhenya by offering to fight the source of his misery. But watching Nikita float back to his own bench, Zhenya didn’t feel the stab of emotional pain. Nikita’s eyes met his, luminescent in the arena lights, and Zhenya shocked himself by smirking.

Nikita jerked his eyes away and retreated—he had obviously not gotten the help he expected from Zhenya. Smiling, Zhenya nudged his shoulder against Sid’s, communicating both his understanding and his thanks. Sid’s scowl softened when he looked at Zhenya, smoothing into fondness. 

***

Zhenya jolted awake to a roar of thunder. His heart bounced around inside his chest like a rabbit scrabbling for escape.

Stubbornly, Zhenya wouldn’t give all of the credit for his nervousness about storms to Nikita. He had never enjoyed them—always jumped and hidden under the covers as a child. But he knew deep down that it had gotten worse after Nikita. He associated the sound with his heartbreak. Long after the pain of the breakup faded, Zhenya’s unease remained.

Zhenya braced as another crack of thunder cut through the peaceful sound of rain on the roof. He wouldn’t be able to sleep. If he tried, the nightmares would be terrible.

To make matters worse, he wasn’t even at home. Zhenya kicked back the covers and sat up to look around the dim room. He had been in it enough that it was familiar but not yet navigate-in-the-dark familiar.

As Zhenya was contemplating whether to use his phone light or risk a broken toe in the dark, a clap of thunder shook the house. Involuntarily, he jumped. The deep breathing behind him halted mid-inhale.

“G?”

Zhenya cringed. He hadn’t wanted to wake Sid. He didn’t want to explain his racing heart, sweaty palms, or the fact that he had a track record of unprompted crying during thunderstorms. He didn’t miss Nikita anymore, but he didn’t know how to explain any of that without Sid jumping to conclusions.

Sid’s hand touched Zhenya’s back. “You okay?”

Zhenya nodded and comforted himself that at least his lie wasn’t audible.

“Can’t sleep?”

“No,” Zhenya said. His voice cracked, and he hunched in on himself, dragging a hand over his face. He tried not to jump at an explosion of thunder, but Sid could surely feel the way he tensed.

“It’s pretty loud,” Sid said genially, but his hand petting across Zhenya’s back showed he knew more than he let on. When Zhenya didn’t answer, Sid tugged on his arm. “Come here.”

Sid pulled on Zhenya until their mouths met, a kiss to check in. Zhenya lingered, reveling in the comforting familiarity of Sid’s soft lips on his. When he made no move to pull back, Sid took it as encouragement. He reached to curl a hand around the back of Zhenya’s neck, locking him in while he angled their mouths together less innocently.

It wasn’t exactly what Zhenya would have sought when he woke up in a thunderstorm. In his own house, he usually went downstairs to watch TV. But with Sid’s mouth hot against his, the thunder took a back seat in his consciousness. Suddenly, the storm seemed less important than the interest stirring against his thigh.

Zhenya pushed Sid’s boxers down just enough to get his dick out and wrapped his hand around it. He jerked Sid off with efficient motions, not aiming to tease or draw it out. When Sid came, he sighed Zhenya’s name. Zhenya heard his voice under the rumble of thunder, the storm nothing more than a distant, old worry.

A flash of lightning revealed Sid’s grin, giddy and mischievous, before he ducked down beneath the covers to take Zhenya into his mouth. With Sid’s lips and tongue on him, Zhenya no longer heard the storm at all.


	2. Mania (Sid/Geno Wrestler AU)

Geno knocked three times, the signal for Sid to go unlock the tour bus door. Electric spikes of thrill shot through him with each step toward the forbidden. Returns from injury at Wrestlemania were clandestine, near-sacred. Sid's surprise run-in after a year away from the ring would not be spoiled by a roadie with a cell phone, so he was under orders to be still, stay away from the tinted windows, and keep quiet. Above all, he was not allowed to open the door before the appointed time.

Sid withdrew after flipping the lock, and Geno ducked inside wearing track pants and a sweatshirt.

"What happened to ring gear?" Sid asked, exasperated. "You said—"

"I know what I say," Geno said with a grin of endless patience while he crowded into Sid's space to kiss him.

"G," Sid said, the effect of his protest diminished from the way he gripped at Geno's sweatshirt to anchor him in and said the words against Geno's mouth. "We had a deal."

Geno’s eyes laughed at Sid when he pulled back. "You think I walk whole way in gear?" Geno said, unzipping his oversized sweatshirt. He was shirtless underneath, and Sid's heart skipped at what that might mean. "People see me, they think, where's he going like that? Maybe follow."

Geno hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and dropped them. Sid's breath caught at the revelation of Geno's red wrestling trunks with matching knee pads and black boots—the ring gear of the most diabolical heel in wrestling and Sid's long-time arch-rival. Geno's appearance in the ring, heralded by menacing and percussive entrance music, sparked terror in children, who cowered away when he sneered at the audience.

Geno’s ring appearance sparked something else in Sid.

It wasn't that Geno was mostly naked. Sid saw Geno _fully_ naked all the time, knew every inch of his body. But Sid would never not be turned on by Geno's skimpy ring gear, the obscenely low cut of his trunks threatening to bare his ass every match.

Standing there shirtless and knowing, Geno flexed his already ridiculous pecs. Everybody bulked for Wrestlemania, but Geno had gone above and beyond for Sid's return. He wanted to look unstoppable, so Sid's win would make him seem superhuman by comparison.

"You just look?" Geno teased.

The jab broke the spell. Sid moved his feet and crashed into Geno.

All of the tour busses had beds in the back, but Sid couldn’t coax Geno that far. Instead, Geno sat Sid down on the couch and dropped to his knees between Sid’s thighs with a hard thump. The impact was softened by his knee pads—God, Geno was yanking down Sid’s pants in full gear and nuzzling against his dick before it was even fully hard. 

“This how it’s going to be in the ring, too?” Sid asked. His fingers shook where they restlessly petted Geno’s hair and traced around his ear. “Take you out there and put you on your knees?”

It wasn’t. The match was tightly choreographed—more so than normal because it was Sid’s return. Nobody wanted to risk another injury due to ring rust, so they ran the match over and over in secret at the Performance Center until they could do it blind. Geno would injure his opponent before the bell, Sid would run down the ramp and insist on a match in the injured man’s stead, and then they would beat the hell out of each other for twenty minutes before Sid got the hard-fought pin. 

They wouldn’t even need to change anything, though. Not really. Instead of lying across his torso, Sid could sit on Geno’s chest to pin him. When he got the three count for the win, instead of crawling to his feet and letting the ref raise his arm, he could peel his trunks down and put the head of his cock against Geno’s bottom lip, just like Geno was doing on the couch in the bus. He could flex his hips forward out there, too, and let his dick slide over the wet surface of Geno’s tongue. 

“Fuck,” Sid said. His breath sounded ragged already. The fantasy had him keyed up way too fast. “They would cheer me if I did it. Eighty-thousand people, G. All of them going wild while I fuck your mouth.”

Geno made a sound, a kind of groaning whimper, and Sid had to put his head back to collect himself. Okay, so Geno was into it. Sid breathed through his nose, eyes firmly on the ceiling while Geno made soft slurping sounds around Sid’s cock. 

“Would you sell it for me? Try to kick out?” Sid asked. 

Geno’s fingers gripped hard on Sid’s thighs like he needed something to hold onto. Sid forced his eyes down to watch Geno’s forearms flex. 

“No, you wouldn’t. You couldn’t. You like it too much. Everybody would see how much you want my dick in your mouth.”

Geno’s eyes flicked open. They were wet in the corners, bright and eager. Sid glanced up at the clock—they had plenty of time.


	3. Peaches (Sid/Nate Farmer AU)

“Most people think peaches, they think Georgia,” the farmer says as he walks, leading Sid toward the trees beside the barn. The farmer is built like a football player, lean but heavy with muscle. He's nimble, though. Light on his feet, and he walks as fast as he talks. By contrast, Sid’s walk has been described as ambling. He practically has to jog to keep up with the farmer’s quick pace. 

“I’ll admit it, Georgia was my first stop,” Sid replies. He grins when the farmer spins all the way around, walking backwards to hit him with an admonishing stare. Sid puts up his hands innocently. “I go where I’m told.”

“Aren’t you the _owner_ of Penguin Pie Company?” the farmer says suspiciously. 

“You caught me,” Sid says, lowering his hands.

The farmer’s face looks more natural when a smile takes it over. He spins around to resume his speed walk.

“That’s alright,” the farmer says over his shoulder. “I forgive you for not knowing this, but Colorado has really taken over the market. Trust me, once you’ve had one of my peaches, there’s no going back. You’ll forget all about Georgia.”

Sid knows it’s not innuendo—they are literally walking toward a peach orchard—but Sid can’t stop his eyes from straying down the farmer’s back and stopping at his ass.

In the promotional and packaging photos for Sid’s new fruit pie line, the reason he’s traveling the country shopping around for peaches, the farmers will wear overalls—they always wear overalls. Sid doesn’t think he can convince his marketing agency to pour some burly actor into pants that accentuate his ass nearly as well as the farmer’s skinny jeans. 

Sid believes the farmer. If he tried _that _peach, he would probably forget a lot more than Georgia.__

__“Here’s the problem with Georgia,” the farmer continues, breaking Sid out of the start of a very cozy daydream. “They just weren’t adaptable. With the changes in climate, new diseases—the Georgia peach market is going to be recovering for a long time. Meanwhile, out here we’ve been maximizing the production of fruit with disease resistant trees that can produce no matter if the summer gets up to a hundred or the winter drops into the negatives.”_ _

__They reach the tree line while the farmer talks. He wastes no time before heading to one of the trees. He reaches up and touches a couple of pink fruits before he plucks one and holds it out. Sid takes it because of the farmer’s eager smile._ _

__“Go on, try it. Let this little guy speak for itself.”_ _

__Sid is wearing a suit worth more than the tractor the farmer stepped down from when Sid pulled his rental car up to the barn. It’s not the most comfortable item in his closet, but he had the thing made specifically for jaunts like this one, new business dealings where he needs to impress. Peach juice should not get anywhere near the delicate fabric—Daphnee would hang him._ _

__But—the farmer is smiling. Sid puts the peach up to his mouth and sinks his teeth into the sweet flesh._ _

__The farmer’s eyes light up when Sid makes an involuntary noise of wordless enjoyment. “Good, right? I’ve been intermixing Reliant Reds with those Golden Sunrise over there, and this is the hybrid.”_ _

__“It’s really good, yeah.”_ _

__“Great, because I’ve got a lot more to show you.”_ _

__Sid thinks the farmer is probably talking about more trees, but watching the flex of his shoulders reaching up to get a fruit, along with the round firmness of his—peach—Sid has things he would rather see._ _

__“Wait,” Sid says before the farmer can run off again. It’s been like this since he arrived. The farmer jumped down from the tractor, met him at his car door, and caught him up in a whirlwind. Sid doesn’t even know what to call him. “Mr. MacKinnon, right?”_ _

__“Oh, jeez, sorry,” the farmer says, looking sheepish. He shakes Sid’s hand in a firm grip. “Nate, please. I—uh, I guess it’s pretty obvious you’re the first one interested in the place, eh?"_ _

__“No, not at all,” Sid says. “You’re enthusiastic. It’s great. I like people who love their jobs. I just, uh—I don’t know much about trees. The whole tour might be lost on me.”_ _

__Sid only realizes they’re still shaking hands when Nate adjusts to rub the pad of his thumb across the back of Sid’s hand. When Sid dares a glance up, Nate’s eyes are cobalt blue and lit up with mischief._ _

__“Oh, I think there’s plenty I can show you.”_ _

__Now _that_ is innuendo. Sid’s heart jumps into a quick beat. “Like what?”_ _

__“Come on,” Nate says, grinning away. He keeps Sid’s hand in his grip for the first few steps before he—seemingly reluctantly—lets it fall away._ _

__Nate leads them out into the trees, talking knowledgably about each one as though introducing Sid to his friends. Along the way, Sid continues idly munching on the soft fruit in his hand. When he audibly slurps at an errant drip, Nate stutters in his fluid stream of consciousness about peaches and bees and the harmony they’ve brought together on the farm. Sid makes sure his smile is far from innocent when Nate turns a wide-eyed look back at him. Nate visibly blushes, his pale complexion allowing his emotion to paint all over his face, but Sid doesn’t think it’s embarrassment. Not the way Nate’s eyes linger on Sid’s lips before returning to the path._ _

__“Uh, if you just come this way I can show you the original stock. The first trees I planted out here.”_ _

__Sid deflates at the return to tree talk, but he can be patient. There’s no doubt he has Nate’s attention. He just needs to get him to stop long enough to focus it. He tosses the peach pit away and keeps on Nate’s heels._ _

__Nate finally slows down when there’s nothing to see but trees, out of sight of the house or the barn or the distant county road. The trees are taller, obviously older, and Nate seems to settle among them. “These are my old boys,” he says, patting one on the trunk. “The OG trees.”_ _

__Sid sidles into Nate’s space and reaches out, puts a palm on the tree trunk beside Nate’s. He feels Nate’s eyes on his face—progress. He is not expecting the chuckle. Sid turns just in time to watch Nate lick his thumb and move to touch it to Sid’s face, rubbing it along the corner of Sid’s mouth._ _

__“Peach juice,” Nate answers the unasked question. His eyes like boiling water, fixated on Sid’s mouth, answer a different question._ _

__Sid keeps his eyes locked firmly on Nate’s when he turns his head and guides Nate’s thumb into his mouth. In the silence of the trees, he can hear Nate’s inhale._ _

__“Oh,” Nate says, but he doesn’t pull back. He doesn’t look away, either, eyes on Sid while he takes the whole digit into his mouth and out again like an obscene finger blowjob. “That’s, uh. You’re—”_ _

__Sid turns his body to face Nate’s and steps closer, suckling Nate’s thumb like an extended nipple. He couldn’t _be_ any more obvious, but he takes the extra step of cupping his hand over the bulge of Nate’s crotch, urging him to take the neon sign of a hint and join in. _ _

__Nate pulls his thumb from Sid’s mouth and replaces it with his tongue, groaning as he goes—like he’s been holding back. Sid wants to tell him holding back is the last thing he wants. He wants Nate’s lips on his, his tongue licking the taste of peach juice out of Sid's mouth. He wants everything, all at once._ _

__Thankfully, Nate seems happy to go along with Sid’s push for more, _faster_. He goes from sloppily kissing Sid to unbuckling his trousers to shoving him up against a tree trunk and sinking to his knees in what feels like a couple of seconds. _ _

__“This part of the tour?” Sid asks. Nate is busily unzipping his trousers and yanking them down._ _

__Nate looks up at him. The sun shines across his face and lights his eyes, sparkling blue and genuine. “It is for you.”_ _

__Sid’s dick is a thousand percent into that answer. That and the tongue that Nate drags across the tip when he gets it free, bobbing in the warm, summer wind._ _

__“Boy, you must really want your peaches in my pies,” Sid jokes breathlessly. He’s surprised he has enough brain cells available while he watches Nate use the head of his dick like lip gloss._ _

__“I _really_ want to suck your dick,” Nate says earnestly, as though he’s forgotten all about any business arrangement they might come to. He dives down and goes to work like it’s all he’s ever wanted._ _

__Well, Sid thinks, thumping his head back against the smooth bark of a well-manicured peach tree, there’s no reason he can’t have both._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's probably time for me to admit that my prompt fill exercise is turning into an excuse to write just the porn parts of the stories I don't have time to finish. Or start.


End file.
